


Relative Distances

by ayatsujik



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 20:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayatsujik/pseuds/ayatsujik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another quintet of loosely linked vignettes and character sketches, imagining a vaguely plausible process by which Natsume and Natori get A Lot Closer. Halfway to an AU hovering around the fringes of the manga timeline, where Natsume and co. in school are heading towards The Future (i.e. college in a city, or hanging around to work).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relative Distances

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Расстояния относительны](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10556258) by [wakeupinlondon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wakeupinlondon/pseuds/wakeupinlondon)



> for Elaine, with all my feels, and as a self-indulgent gesture in the direction of our OT4.

**1.**

Natsume at 18 is a head taller than he was three years ago. His frame is a little more robust; his limbs are a little longer, a touch firmer.

He doesn't often fall ill, these days. Microbes have nothing on spirits, for one thing. For another, he agrees with Shigeru's assessment that country life suits him. It's this air, the many walks, the gardening and housework he helps do, to say nothing of the love and the amount with which Touko feeds him. Touko's started showing him off to her friends, despite Natsume's obvious embarassment and awkward small talk every time one or more of them comes over for tea. 

One weekend she makes Shigeru drive all of them to the big department store in the nearest city to get Natsume a new wardrobe, heedless of his protests that he was perfectly fine with his old things, the sleeves and legs were *just* a little too short, that's all. His pleas fall on deaf ears, as his adopted mother picks out what to him is a dizzying array of apparel: shirts, jeans, socks, underwear. A new coat. Let's get new shoes while we're at it; Takashi-kun, clothes are more important than you think. You'll be glad of these things, trust me. Her declarations are affectionate and inexorable. Shigeru tells him that he should think of these excursions as things that make them happy. Confronted with Touko's bright face among the racks of button-down shirts she's looking through for him, Natsume can't argue. It still makes him wonder that the Fujiwaras never seem to tire of giving. He still feels gratitude that tends to fuzz up his throat and cloud his eyes, waves of emotion that break upon him in their presence.

You're growing up, the Fujiwaras tell him. Soon you won't be a boy anymore.

Natsume tries not to think about how Touko and Shigeru have a little more grey in their hair each year. 

Nyanko-sensei, in his arms, is a ball of companiable ungraciousness. Release me, you dolt, huffs the cat-not-a-cat. Go on a Nanatsujiya manju run while you're about it, use those longer legs for something productive, eh? I don't know why I'm still here, you're lucky the Book of Friends still has *some* names left in it...

Natsume is grateful, every time he reaches for him, that Nyanko-sensei is as Nyanko-sensei as ever.

There are plenty of other ways in which he hasn't changed, even if his wardrobe has. His skin is still pale, still defiant of sun (though in summer he freckles ever so slightly); his eyelashes are still longer than anyone expects a boy's to be, his features are still annoyingly - to him - delicate. Nishimura occasionally remembers to tease him about this, out of envy for the girls who have started writing him confessions and depositing little bags of cookies and chocolate in his locker - not only on Valentine's Day, but at moments throughout the school year.

It's so unfair, you damned pretty boy, grumbles Nishimura.

Well, Kitamoto patiently says. The girls say he's a lot more approachable now because he smiles more - and look how much *we* hang out with him, so that must be thanks to us, right?

It's still unfair, Nishimura whines. I mean, it's not like Natsume's changed _that_ much since our first year, have you? Why are you suddenly, like, the Natori Shuuichi of our school or something?

Natsume, finishing a box of strawberry milk, chokes. Tanuma reaches over to bang a helpful hand on his back.

There are plenty of people Natsume's mind wanders to - in idle moments, half-daydreams induced by class, the hazy space between sleep and wakefulness. Reiko and spirits feature frequently, of course. So do other people who deal with spirits. Natsume's thoughts about the latter kind of people have a way of settling on a small black lizard skittering over a certain person's skin; an existence all movement, no sound. The smiling face of the person it lives on, as it passes under his eyes, over his mouth. Disappearing under a collar or a sleeve. 

There are nights when Natsume's made acutely aware of wanting, in both senses, a certain kind of touch; of knowing it is something he lacks, something he desires. This bothers him, of course. It would bother him more, but for his biology textbook assuring him that this is normal, that people in his age group are _supposed_ to have strange ideas about their bodies and what their bodies want. _Who_ their bodies want. Nishimura's offers of illicitly procured images featuring female bodies wearing little to nothing present no solutions, but they do confirm for Natsume that adolescence is a troublesome business.

He deals with it, learning to control his worries, the initial fears. It helps that Nyanko-sensei confines himself to the occasional caustic remark on how much easier spirits find it to solve these kinds of problems.

 

**2.**

Natori at 26 is still sparkling, still clothed in casual elegance and a smile of impeccable, impenetrable suaveness.

Hiiragi sits on nearby trees or windowsills while he performs on the sets of dramas, movies, photoshoots; the occasional interview on TV and radio, the guest appearance on variety shows. She's seen her share of things around Natori: how he's made some fellow actresses cry through turning down their invitations to be intimate off screen as well, how he uses every bit of leverage he has with his manager and agency to choose the jobs he takes on. How he usually turns down jobs that require him to be away from these parts for a long period of time; how he calibrates the recognition he's earned for his acting. 

Hiiragi doesn't understand how humans make value judgements about the kind of performances Natori and his colleagues do in front of cameras, but she knows that the people in his agency think he could have far more fame, much more money, if he "went big" with some famous people called directors and producers.

Natori smiles and says, when they tell him things in this vein, that he's grateful for the opportunities he has now. 

He enjoys his visits to large cities, and to Tokyo. After a while, though, those kinds of places start to feel suffocating, weighing on his senses. He's grown used to the luxury of filming in open spaces; along coastlines, on roads with the smell of grass and earth and damp leaves after rain. Truth be told, he's also not used to not seeing the things in cities that give him his other occupation. Spirits don't gather in areas where most of the natural world is smothered under concrete and glass and brick, where temples and shrines and figures of deities are in even greater want of people to worship them.

Three years in Natsume's company have let him see some things in shades of grey.

Hiiragi knows that her master, her human, is bound to this region. She also knows that a certain charge of a certain raccoon-pig-cat-like spirit in the next town is in the same boat. No less is she aware that this same charge is part of Natori's reasons for how he takes care of his work - both the sort that allows him the means of living an everyday human existence, and the kind she assists him with.

Hiiragi isn't sure how far Natori has acknowledged this to himself.

She doesn't usually talk to Natori about things outside their work. But she brings up Natsume to Natori sometimes, because she likes the slight shift hearing about him causes in Natori's expression. How his name makes it glimmer with concern, or a flicker of sadness; an emotion closer to yearning. But always, always concerned. There isn't much that concerns Natori; there certainly isn't anyone else Hiiragi's seen concern him more than the only other human she thinks anything of.  
  
He's a good boy, Natori responds once, half to himself.

Hiiragi cocks her head to one side. With respect, nushi-sama, she replies. Is he not almost fully grown, by human standards?

Natori blinks, giving her an astonished look, and laughs.

Yes, you're right, he says ruefully. Sometimes I forget.

You are young, too, Hiiragi tells him. Sometimes this is another thing you forget.

Natori knows Hiiragi knows a lot more than she tells him.

  
**3.**

"Have you ever thought about becoming an actor?"  
  
Natori's face was a study in seriousness. Natsume choked on his iced tea. "What?"

"I mean it, you know. You've got the looks; I think you'd be cut out for it. More so than for exorcisms, certainly." A burst of sparkles. "What do you think? We could be in the same productions, Fujiwara-san could see you on TV and in the cinema -"

"No thanks," Natsume said decisively. "I'll leave that kind of thing to you."

"What a shame. Don't you want hundreds of girls in the country to sigh over your face?"

"Somehow I think I'll live without that."

"Oh ho - already have a girlfriend, I see? Perhaps more than one?"

"No!" Natsume sputtered, going slightly pink. "I'm not - not  _you_ , Natori-san!"

"I'm so hurt, Natsume. You sound like I'm some kind of rake, but I assure you I lead a solitary and austere life outside my on-screen kisses."

"It's not my business whatever your off-screen life is like, Natori-san."

"How horribly cold, Natsume. Especially when you're such a key part of it."

"It really would be nice if you didn't say things other people might misunderstand."

"But how they would misunderstand the truth? Or do you object to being in my off-screen life that much?"

"Natori-san -"

"NYURGH," growled Nyanko-sensei, hopping off Natsume's lap onto the cafe table and making a beeline for the remainder of Natori's slice of cake. "What pointless conversations you idiots have. Natori-brat, if you want something, just take it already."

Natori arched a brow. "What's the kitty talking about?"

"Nyrrumph," the cat-not-a-cat sniffed. "If you don't know, you should go work that puny brain of yours harder. Or ask this other idiot over here."

Natsume sipped his tea and glared at his live-in bodyguard.

"By the way, Touko-san says she's making something to give to you," he said after a while. "Maybe I could come over some time next week when you're free?"

"Of course," Natori said, still smiling.

  
**4.**

In retrospect, he thought, it wasn't so surprising how it happened. That it happened. 

Even holding secrets from each other, they'd always managed to be frank about plenty of other things, after all. Including feelings. Neither of them excelled at subtlety, even if Natori was better at not wearing emotions on his sleeve. 

Natsume sensed that the twinges of guilt and sadness that plagued him around Natori stemmed not simply out of concern for the spirits in Natori's charge, or the targets of his exorcist work. It could be so difficult, this yearning to be completely open to someone, to have them be the same for you. Natsume thought about himself in relation to Natori more often than he liked to admit; he didn't know how much Natori thought about him, but he knew Natori cared, which had always made Natsume happy.

He'd always wanted Natori to be happy.

It had occurred to him that wanting not to mind the creature that lived on his skin might be more for his own sake than for Natori's. Accomplishing this, after all, would make it easier for Natori to be an unambivalent part of his own happiness.

(How selfish.)

He'd come to realise at some point over the last three years that Natori's touch was different, that it had somehow acquired a dimension beyond reassurance and simple affection. This realisation troubled him. It continued to be an unbridgeable part of the distance between them, a space of unstable size he never could be sure was shrinking or growing.

But right now, they were here.

Here, in Natori's sparsely-furnished apartment, where the assortment of home-made pickles Touko had asked him to bring were still in their bag, standing forgotten on the table. Here, where the physical space between them had shrunk to nothing. Natori was pressing him against the wall, *hard*; Natori's tongue was exploring his mouth while his knee was shoved between Natsume's thighs, one hand on Natsume's waist and the other cradling Natsume's head, tangled through Natsume's hair, and Natsume couldn't really think, could only feel, could only respond. He knew he was flushed, that his heart was beating ridiculously hard, and that he was even more ridiculously glad that he had left Nyanko-sensei snoozing at home, even if he was liable to show up at any moment.

Against the giddiness that threatened to swallow him, the shocks of these touches, he was aware that this didn't not make sense.

Natori released him eventually, breathing hard, and touched his lips to his forehead.

"You're fine with this?"

Natsume closed his eyes, drawing a long breath. It brought with it more of the scent of Natori's cologne, and he dimly registered its notes: cedar, pine, a bouquet of evergreen smells. (Who wore fragrance in their own house, anyway?) He tried to speak; the words wouldn't come.

"Look at me," Natori said.  
  
He stared up into Natori's eyes, dark with an emotion Natsume had only seen in glimmers and shadows before. The lizard birthmark flickered across his cheek. Natsume raised his fingers to Natori's face, tracing its trail.

(You learned to live with some things; you learned to live with how others lived with some things.)

Natori moved closer, again, and brushed his lips over Natsume's ear; dropped them to his neck; grazed them across his collarbone. He couldn't stifle a shudder, couldn't hold back a small sound. It sounded suspiciously like the sounds the women made in those films Nishimura sometimes inflicted on their group.

"You really are trouble," Natori whispered into his ear. His breath was hot and his voice was lower, rougher than usual; Natsume felt a flurry of unfamiliar sensations rise in the pit of his belly, none of them unpleasant. "Do you have *any* idea how much trouble you cause me?"

He swallowed; found his voice. It emerged hoarse, but steady. "Then you should admit you like trouble."

"Natsume," Natori murmured. "I can still stop, if you want me to, but you need to kick me, or hit me, or something...if you're not absolutely clear you don't want this, I can't promise I'll hold back."

The thought crossed his mind that it was strange, how different a face this was from Natori's on-screen expressions with a scripted romantic interest; how it was coloured with hesitation, lacking all traces of its usual levity. This adult, this capable person, was waiting for *Natsume* to be the one to give assurance, to make the next move.

He experienced a wave of tenderness towards the older man, then, mingled with the sudden sense that it was a topsy-turvy state of affairs if the person pinned against the wall should actually feel in control.

"I'm glad something about this amuses you," Natori said dryly.

In lieu of a reply, Natsume reached behind him to take the hand on his waist. He moved it to his chest, placed it over his heart. Kept on watching.

Natori returned his hand to its former position, drawing Natsume in closer and cutting off his breath again. Both hands were moving, now. One found its way beneath his shirt, sliding long, cool fingers up his spine. The other headed lower. He heard his belt come unbuckled, a zip lowered. Natsume arched his back, involuntarily; stopped thinking again.

Control, he discovered, could be a fickle and ephemeral friend.

  
**5.**  
  
"Reiko-san was very beautiful, I hear."

"...Natori-san, it's not like I have a lot of experience with this kind of thing, but I really don't think my grandmother is a good subject for pillow talk."

"I also hear you look like her, and that you might not have appreciated the compliment in direct form," Natori said, reaching out to tweak his nose.

Natsume averted his eyes. "I'm not a girl; you don't need to say things like that."

"I'm afraid I have to justify my behaviour," Natori told him, unflappable. "Look at me."

Every piece of this ridiculous boy - not for much longer, he reminded himself - was precious: the quick, upward sweep of his long lashes, the small twist of embarrassment to his smile, the flush that reappeared as they held each other's gaze. He'd spent three years watching this person grow, accumulating files and files of mental notes.

Natori wasn't a gambler. He thought about strategies. He observed structures, noticed details, organised information. These things came naturally to him. He made plans; he considered contingencies. Natsume didn't.

Feelings were the most troublesome kind of contingencies.

Sometimes he wondered if Natsume had changed him for the worse. In any case, he knew that wasn't a question worth answering; that the changes Natsume had wrought, without intending to, weren't anything he wanted to let go of.

Natori closed his eyes, and concentrated on things close at hand, on making sure the warmth in his arms stayed there.

He suspected that neither the cat nor Hiiragi would be especially surprised.


End file.
